The Spectator and the Muses

Confession of a Visionary Voyeur

I like observing people, even more so if they don’t notice. I don’t know why or what exactly, but there’s just something fascinating about catching that little glimpse of a person’s life—that blank stare as a person ponders about life during a walk, or that split-second of disgust drawn on somebody’s face as they’re kissed by their soon-to-be-ex significant other. Observing those details almost allow me to absorb the truth and reality of that person.

I understand why God and Santa Claus make a point of watching what people do.

I, however, don’t stick to just watching people around me. No. I take it further, creative liar that I am, and allow my imagination to fill in the gaps for what I don’t get to see. Thus I envision the infidelity of that significant other and the insincerity of the kiss that disgusts the receiver, as well as the abyss of thoughts and secrets staring down a person like impending doom as they stroll down a shopping mall.

I guess I’m a dissatisfied voyeur, who makes up the novel in my head when all I can see in reality is merely the cover art. But I guess that’s a good thing—otherwise, how else would I find the stuff that dreams and stories are made of?